Imagining
by concretegirl
Summary: He imagines her, eyes shut, cradled in slumber. He imagines the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle ‘o’ her sleeping mouth forms. He sighs. The slow, labored, sigh of defeat. This is as good as it’s going to get. Imagining.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, and suing me would be neither nice nor worthwhile. So please don't do it.

**A/N:** This is my first fanfic, so please be kind. I usually only write original pieces and am trying to get the hang of writing with pre-conceived characters. It takes place after Last Week Fights, This Week Tights. A million hugs and thank-yous to Missy, for beta-ing.

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It is night. She drums her fingers upon the rail. Where is he? She's waiting for him, where is he? She squints her eyes, scans the dark sky for a headlight, and listens for the cracking of twigs. She'll take anything. Just let it be him. Just let him come.  
  
He doesn't.  
  
Tears spill onto her cheeks, she brushes them away. She's angry at him for coming back to her the night before, for asking her to go with him, for unearthing all the old memories, all the old pain. She's angry at herself for turning him down, for letting him leave her alone again.  
  
She stands, gazing past the confines of the gazebo. Nothing. No one. He's not there. The only lights are the stars; the only sounds are the gentle chirps of the crickets.  
  
He sits, feet propped upon the thin iron railing of the balcony, head rested against the brick outer wall of the apartment. Exhaling, he wills the darkness to engulf him, to make her image go away. He sees her every time he closes his eyes. Her soft brown hair, and baby blues, the eyes that can see right through him. He swears under her breath. She's haunting him. Or rather, taunting him. She doesn't want him. He winces, remembering. She had said it without hesitation. "No." That single word had caused his heart to break. He could feel it, ripping in two. It hurt. It hurts.  
  
His eyes search the skyline, willing the buildings to disappear, wishing he could see Stars Hollow, wishing he could see her. He imagines her, eyes shut, cradled in slumber. He imagines the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle 'o' her sleeping mouth forms. He sighs. The slow, labored, sigh of defeat. This is as good as it's going to get. Imagining.  
  
She's walking home. She whirls about at the slightest sound, daring to hope that it could be him. It never is. She had thought herself smarter than this. Of course he isn't going to come back. He already had. He'd come back. He'd asked her to be with him. She'd sent him away again. It's her fault. She hates herself for saying it, for speaking that one short word. Two letters. How is it possible for two letters to inflict so much damage? She doesn't understand, she didn't think he'd stop at that. She didn't think he'd take no for an answer. She had hurt him, she realizes. Enough for him to stop arguing. Enough for him to stop fighting for her.   
  
She's at her front door. She pauses for a moment, trying to silence the thoughts in her head. She slides to the ground, back against the wood. Resting her hands on her knees, she waits for the tears to fall.  
  
He rises, groaning with effort. Dwelling isn't healthy. It's done. It's over. He walks inside, not bothering to latch the screen door behind him. He's too tired. Collapsing onto his bed, he reaches to his nightstand. He pulls open the drawer and his fingers fumble inside, searching for the book he knows to be there. The worn cover, the dog-eared pages, he's found it. Howl. He'd "borrowed" a copy of hers once. The night she'd called him "Dodger". He sighs. It seems so long ago.  
  
Sniffling, she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. A phone number. No, not just any phone number. His phone number. It had been on a post-it-note on the counter at Luke's the day before. Liz had set it there after bragging to bewildered customers, "My Jess has a cell phone, isn't that wonderful?" It was a great accomplishment in her mind, a sign of climbing up in the world. Rory had committed those ten digits to memory, and had written them down at first chance. She hadn't planned on using them.  
  
The ringing drags him out of the poetry, and he turns to glare at the cell phone on the nightstand. Who the hell would call him at two in the morning? The ring continues, not one of those song-rings. God, it's a phone, not a radio. His is a phone-ring, shrill and repetitive. "Yeah?" he grunts, putting it to his ear.  
  
"Jess?"   
  
Her voice is small, quiet, shaking. But it is her. He takes a breath, praying to every God he has heard of that this is real, that she is really calling him.  
  
"Rory?"   
  
She doesn't respond. He can hear each breath she takes, but not a word passes her lips.   
  
"Rory?"   
  
Silence.   
  
"Damn it Rory. Don't do this. Don't f—king send me away, then call me at two in the morning and not say a thing. Don't."  
  
She hangs up. Click. The line deadens. His face falls. "Shit."


End file.
